


If Odysseus Only Knew

by CBlue



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Falling In Love, I don't know????, I mean these bastards are too but yanno, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No Beta We Die Like Skyfall, Pining, Self-Indulgent, angst??? fluff???, as in me I'm self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: James Bond has always been a thrill-seeker. Always wanted to see how close he can get to death, kiss the reaper as it were, without the final curtain falling. But now he's resigning himself to it. He had been the one to tie himself to the mast, watching as the ship sailed toward siren infested waters. It's the danger-seeking in him that pointed him forward into the bay. The ropes are frayed from where he tried fighting against this once, but now he closes his eyes and accepts the water rising to his waist.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	If Odysseus Only Knew

**Author's Note:**

> This is literal word vomit. I showed up to this fandom late with a mug of Earl Grey and here we go my dudes.

If there is one thing that James Bond knows, it is that you jump from the ship _before_ it sinks. Only fools sink with it. Only men fed on false dreams and bastardized heroism die with the ship. James Bond will _not_ die with the ship.

Except now he's sinking. He's sinking and he _likes_ it. He's always been a thrill-seeker. Always wanted to see how close he can get to death, kiss the reaper as it were, without the final curtain falling. But now he's _resigning_ himself to it. He had been the one to tie himself to the mast, watching as the ship sailed toward siren infested waters. It's the danger-seeking in him that pointed him forward into the bay. The ropes are frayed from where he tried fighting against this once, but now he closes his eyes and accepts the water rising to his waist.

He hadn't noticed when it was only at his ankles - the water that is. Actually, that's not entirely accurate. James _had_ known. What sort of self-respecting double-oh would he be if he _hadn't_ noticed the ice water snatching at his Crocket & Jones? Of course, James Bond had bloody well _noticed_ but the fact of the matter was that James was a thrill-seeking bastard who wanted to see how far he could go. How far he could sail the ship before it would sink.

The answer is only months. Only months after two years. Maybe James had always been sent on a doomed course. He had nearly sunk, had steered his ship through uncharted waters and dangerous landscapes. Just barely surviving and now he was doomed. He thought Vesper would have been the one to have done it. But instead, it is a gentle smirk hiding witty words behind a coffee mug.

So begins James' descent. It begins with banter. It begins with glances and lingering touches. His Quartermaster says, "bring it back," but James cannot help the worm in his ear that whispers, "come back."

Whether James wants to or not, he hardly _ever_ brings it back. However, _he_ always comes back. Perhaps late, perhaps weeks or on one occasion a month, but he _always_ returns himself to his Quartermaster, whether Q is asking or not. James desperately - foolishly, his worm betrays - hopes Q is asking.

The water is at his neck and James has not yet opened his eyes. The cold water aches at his joints and scars, but it is soothing all at once. Happily, James is submitting himself to his demise. Submitting himself to the lacing of fingers between his own. The feeling of warm sheets and a body resting on top of his. The smell of Earl Grey in the morning as soft sunlight pours onto pale skin and James is the one hiding his smile into a mug. It makes him ache. On some days he wishes he could remove himself from the mast, climb to the utmost point of the ship or swim for shore. On other days, he wishes the ship would just sink bloody faster. Those days scare him the most. He just hides the tender ache behind his mug and the pattern of bruises coating Q's hip.

"James?" Q calls to him across the desk, "what's this?"

The double-oh agent shrugs, using all of his carefully honed skills to not overshow his hand. "I should think a man smart enough to topple governments at the push of a single button could puzzle that."

Q huffs, a lovely sound from rose petal lips, as the Quartermaster fiddles with the small gadget. "I can't believe you brought it _back_ ," he retorts instead, eyes twinkling and mirth filled. While James might be a man of seduction and intrigue, Q is a man of riddles and codes. Easily read when you know the language. And James considers himself well-versed in the language of Q. Seeing the _thank you_ written on his face is well worth the extra cracked rib that James had received keeping the doodad intact.

It - the water - rises and he can barely breathe. So close to the end and his instincts begin to fight. Deftly, James raises his chin, desperate for more air. Primal instincts beg for oxygen while the worm in his ear whispers that the water is his salvation. The water will burn his lungs if he breathes it in deeply and it will release him from this ship. James fears leaving the railing for it is the only thing he knows - the ship that is. James Bond's entire life has rested on the deck of this ship. He had bled here and lost here and yet there is a damn _siren_ in that water. It begs him to let his lungs burn.

"I have an answer," James whispers, words becoming fogged in the winter air as he stands across from his Quartermaster. London traffic creates the symphony on this night and the noise is a welcome distraction from the burning in James' chest and the heartache spoken in Q's language.

The laugh is cruel and colder than the London air or the water that threatens to consume James. "Oh, thank you," Q nods and James knows that there is a biting at beautiful eyes but his Quartermaster is _strong_ and will not show vulnerability. Not for a second time. Not when - just maybe - Q is drowning too, has been drowning, and James would not give him the release of the water. Would not plunge him further. Maybe James thought he was _saving_ Q, or that's the lie he had told himself, but really he's _frightened_ because James Bond flirts with danger and kisses reapers but he does not commit to that final rest.

Well, commitment, that was really the issue, wasn't it?

"Ask me again," the winter enraptures his dangerous words like smoke from a dragon but he feels like anything but. Not a beast or a spy. Just a man who has tied himself to the boat. A foolish captain _drowning_.

Q swallows, swallows pride, swallows bitterness, who knows. Not James. Not when there's still so much of Q's dialect to learn. _God,_ James wants to take the rest of his life to learn it. Commit to studying it as if it were the only knowledge to plummet in. As if Q was the only water to drown in. _Let the river take me_ , an unspoken mantra as James waits. Because there are Queen and country but what the bloody hell does any of that mean if there isn't his Quartermaster in his pyjamas toppling and rising governments over his first cup of coffee?

"Will you marry me?" Q asks of him, not for the first time. It seems almost trivial to marry someone when your identities are nonexistent. It seems almost trivial to share a flat with someone when neither one of you is home. It seems almost trivial to take Q's face into his hands and imprint his answer on rose-petal lips. Except that it's not. Every kiss stolen, given, _taken_ , is another gulp of water in his lungs. Kissing Q is never trivial, breathing in water has never been trivial.

Pulling back, James feels the tug at his lips as he begins to smile. Painting Q's lips has become one of his favorite past-times. Well, painting Q's body with spit, bruises, and all sorts of markings that leave pieces of him for his Quartermaster. Leave pieces of him _on_ his Quartermaster.

"A man of action," Q chuckles, fists clenching at James' jacket.

"Always have been," James quips.

James looks and in the water he sees it. Sees the reflection of moonlight and the damning gentle smirk with its witty, too-clever charm. _Damn it_ and _damn James_ himself. For he no longer thrashes about. No longer pulls his chin above the water. Inhaling only once, gasping at his last bit of fresh air, he plunges to the depths. The water is dark and cold and the boat only a memory. Instead, he reaches out for the locks of ink floating in the water and lets the siren that has been calling for him _take_ him. Even Odysseus knew how beautiful a siren's song could be, but if only he knew what _succumbing_ to it could feel like.


End file.
